


Birthday Sex

by slipgoingunder



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Birthday, Birthday Sex, Birthday Smut, Blow Jobs in a Car, Car Sex, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, POV Rey (Star Wars), Reverse Cowgirl, Sex in a Car, Smut, Uncircumcised Penis, as part of, please use a condom in real life okay?, specifically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-20 04:42:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20669510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipgoingunder/pseuds/slipgoingunder
Summary: Every year on his birthday, Ben Solo's mother takes him out for a family dinner at a local restaurant. Bartender Rey would like him to take her. Period.





	1. Tall Guy is not married

**Author's Note:**

> I just celebrated my own birthday and for some reason this idea popped into my head as a quick one-shot. Naturally it took me an extra week to finish writing this and about 8000 more words than intended. 
> 
> It's all pre-written (I wrote it while listening to slow jams), so I'll post daily. 
> 
> Apologies for any inadvertent similarities to fics that take place in bars. 
> 
> Please enjoy the song [Birthday Sex](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vYMxOzxKYYo) as you read this trash.

Jakkü Kitchen has huge picture windows facing the valet stand, and from behind the bar, Rey often finds herself staring at the beautiful cars that pull up to the stanchion. She doesn’t much care to look at the people who get out and pocket a ticket from Mitaka. Just the cars. 

She vigorously shakes a skinny margarita while fantasizing about getting behind the wheel of an Acura NSX or a BMW Z4, feeling the leather seat against the backs of her thighs, palming the heavy gearshift. Maybe popping open the moonroof. 

It’s a far cry from her 2007 Ford Focus with manual windows and locks and a very visible crack down the front windshield that she can't quite afford to fix. 

But for the first time all night, her eyes are glued to a person, rather than a vehicle. To be fair, she’d noticed the car first. He’d pulled up in a Jaguar F-Type R Coupe. Tall guy—compared to Mitaka, at least—with pale skin and dark, artfully unruly hair, a little damp, like he just came from the gym. Hard to tell through the window. 

Rey stares longingly at the Jag, watching Mitaka jump into the driver's seat. There hadn't been anyone in the passenger seat—_is he meeting a date?_—but suddenly she sees a long arm gesturing wildly near the vestibule. Tall Guy is arguing with someone just outside the entrance: a shorter, older man with sandy-colored, graying hair, a beard, and a PETA t-shirt. For a moment, she's afraid Short Man is a panhandler or a protestor. Sometimes the animal rights organization from one of the local universities shows up to complain about foie gras. But although the insulated windows don't allow for any eavesdropping, the conversation is so fucking intense, she knows it must be more personal than that. 

Tall Guy’s shouting and gesticulating—really pissed—while Short Man just takes it, calmly.

It’s the most exciting shit to happen all evening. Rey immediately makes up half a dozen possible backstories about Tall Guy and Short Man. 

Rey likes the Tuesday night shift at Jakkü. The tips are better on the weekends, but Tuesdays have an easy vibe. No one's ordering pina coladas or mojitos. Kaydel, her barback, is speedy with the dishes and garnishes and she can almost handle a quiet shift alone. 

And Rey has her regulars at the bar: 

Snap Wexley, divorced, mid-40s inside sales guy, likes to buy late 20s women drinks, hates to leave alone but usually does. 

His fitter, more charming co-worker, Poe Dameron, likes to buy mid-40s women drinks and rarely leaves alone. 

Rose Tico, mid 20s back end dev, likes to meet Tinder dates here, where her sister, Paige, can keep an eye on them from the hostess stand. 

Rey likes Rose's date tonight. She doesn't usually. But before he'd walked in, Rose had swiped through his profile for Rey and Paige and there hadn't been any pictures of "Finn" holding up a fish, or posing with another girl, or obvious bathroom selfies. His smile is infectious and genuine. 

Working as a bartender has taught Rey a lot about body language: when two people lean into each other, touch their own hair, bite their lips. She can usually predict how the night is going to end about two minutes after the customer sits down. 

Rey can tell that Snap will call it a night around 9:30 and end his Tuesday with the Netflix part of Netflix and Chill. Poe is saying all the wrong things to a gorgeous older woman with lavender hair, but that hasn't stopped her from eye fucking him for the last hour. Rose and Finn are entertaining each other with stories of past Tinder dates gone wrong and she's already touched his forearm twice. 

It's like spinning that giant wheel on a game show. Occasionally you completely strike out, go home alone, and console yourself with a bottle of Merlot and a marathon of _House Hunters International_. One time in a million you find a man who just wants to throw you in his bed and go down on you for as long as you want, and fuck you until you're positive you'll be sore—not that you care—and make you breakfast the next morning. But the vast majority of the time you spin $400. The equivalent of a 37% satisfying one-night stand that you forget about a week later. 

And those odds aren't good enough for her. 

Maybe someday she'll get to the point where she lets Snap keep her company during closing, and give her a ride home, and she'll sigh and agree to the Chill part of Netflix and Chill. The next day, she'll have to switch her schedule in order to avoid him for the rest of her life. 

Yeah, it's a lot safer to just..._not_. 

Rey is about to offer Lavender Hair another g&t when she notices Tall Guy throwing open the front door, leaving Short Man standing beside the valet podium.

Her eyes follow his path, like a tractor beam, from the entrance to a brief stop at the hostess stand, where Paige points in her direction. She feels like she's been caught doing something wrong. 

So he _is_ waiting for someone.

Before she can internally acknowledge the way her stomach swoops in response to this development, Paige walks him over to the least populated side of the bar.

"Rey will take care of you, while you wait for the other members of your party," she says with a smile. "And happy birthday." 

He perches on the barstool at the end, and immediately buries his head in his phone. 

_Birthday_? The plot thickens. His aesthetic is a bit...funereal for a birthday celebration. Rey eyes his black suit, discreetly looking him up and down, trying not to feel intimidated by her own outfit. She wears the same thing almost every shift: loose black top with dark jeans and her Doc Martens 1460s. Except she'd spilled bloody mary mix all over her jeans during the hellscape that was Sunday brunch, so she'd put on a skirt tonight. It feels odd—_vulnerable_—standing behind the bar without pants on. 

"What can I get for you?" Rey asks, sliding a Jakkü-branded coaster and a drink menu in front of him and placing her palms on top of the polished concrete bar top. It steadies her a little bit. 

"Four Roses Single Barrel, neat," he mumbles, head still lowered. He certainly doesn't have the demeanor of someone about to celebrate a happy occasion. 

"That's a serious drink for a birthday dinner."

"Just something to take the edge off." His voice is pitched low, but it's resonant. The restaurant isn't too noisy for her to hear him clearly, but she leans over the bar anyway.

He finally looks up. Rey finds herself locking onto a pair of the most forlorn eyes she's ever seen. (And working behind the bar, you see some serious fucking eyes on people.) They're deep brown, almost black under the dim atmospheric lighting that the general manager insists upon.

There's no reason she should care about him—his behavior in the last two minutes reminds her of the dogs who wear harnesses with the words _I'M NERVOUS_ printed on them so strangers don't reach down, pat their heads, and lose a finger. 

But.

Something stops her from grabbing the Four Roses bottle.

"Can I make you something more...festive?" 

He tilts his head up a bit more, those eyes she's already obsessing over scanning her face, making the heat rise in her cheeks. 

"As long as it doesn't have an umbrella."

_Hello there, slight hint of a personality. _It's just enough of an opening.

"How did you know I learned to tend bar by watching TGI Fridays training videos on Youtube?" He gives her a vaguely charmed look that she doesn't at all hate. Maybe it's the shadows created by the mood lighting, but his features are so—_striking _is really the only word for it. She could examine his face for a long time. Except that would be creepy, so she will definitely only look at his face a normal bartender number of seconds. "I think I can come up with something you'll like."

Rey reaches for a mixing glass and a particular whiskey bottle, keeping her eyes on him. 

He's not her type, not that she's sure what her type is. But she can tell anyone on the other side of the bar about _their_ type. It's a lot less dangerous, letting the customers play in their own sandbox, while she pushes drinks across the bar, greasing the wheels for their mistakes.

"Are you waiting for your wife?" she asks, even as her conscience screams not to engage with a man who possesses the kind of temper she'd witnessed a minute ago. The kind of person who shouts at doddering old men in promotional t-shirts outside nice restaurants.

She's already about 74% sure Tall Guy is not married—he's not wearing a ring—but something compels her to confirm it. Maybe she's just wants to keep him talking so he doesn't idly unlock his phone and ignore her attempts at conversation. Maybe she _wants _him to know that she's curious about his marital status. 

"No. I'm not—I don't have a wife." 

Rose's joyous laugh cuts through ambient noise. At least this is easy for someone tonight.

"Girlfriend? Er—boyfriend, life partner...emotional support animal?" _Jesus, get a fucking grip_. 

The corner of his mouth tugs up ever so slightly as he shakes his head. It's a nice mouth. Not that Rey usually notices men's lips or anything. 

She adds equal parts vermouth and Campari into the glass. 

"No, my parents insist on doing this every year.” With his index finger, he traces the outline of the Jakkü logo on the coaster. She watches that motion pretty closely. And maybe she thinks about that finger tracing something else across her back or down her thigh, or between her breasts. “TGI Fridays would probably be Han’s preference," he adds under his breath. "Hopefully you have a blender back there and a thirty ounce margarita glass."

“We serve hipster portions here. Maybe I can muddle something artisanal for him. Han is your—"

“He's been separated from my mother for about twelve years," he says, not hiding the bitterness in his tone. "They still feel the need to do this together, like they’re fooling a grown man into believing we’re all still a happy family." 

"It's nice that they care." Rey carefully cuts a fresh slice of peel from an orange, while deftly ignoring Poe's gestures from the other end of the bar. She's good with her paring knife. "They probably just want to see their precious baby boy on his big day."

She glances up from the orange, just fast enough to see something resembling amusement passing across his features. 

"Something like that." 

Tall Guy is, indeed, a grown ass man.

She grins and bites her lip, unsure about how much teasing he'll actually indulge. But he raises his eyebrows ever so slightly and runs his hand through his hair. Rey has seen enough "ask me to come home with you" body language at this bar to know that he's enjoying this. 

Not that she ever does that kind of thing herself. It's unprofessional, for starters. It would disrupt her routine. 

Stability is important to her. 

She stirs his cocktail before straining it neatly into the rocks glass with a tiny bit more flair than is strictly necessary. Tall Guy watches her nimble fingers as she expresses the orange twist over the drink. Her customers usually don't pay such close attention, but then again, she doesn't always put quite this much effort into the orange oil.

She likes it. Being noticed.

"Hey, Rey?" Poe finally calls out, "Another gin and tonic for _Amilyn_. With an extra twist."

Rey nods absentmindedly in Poe's direction, while setting Tall Guy's drink down on the coaster, perfectly centered.

His phone is lying face up on the bar and she sees the lock screen light up with an incoming call from someone named Richard Snoke. 

He slides his thumb along the screen to answer, but them immediately ends the call. 

_Curious_.

“Is it rude if I ask which birthday you're celebrating?" she ventures, while making the g&t on autopilot. 

"Yes." He picks up his drink, almost admiring it. "Is it equally rude of me to force you to guess?"

Rey squints in his direction.

"Is it cheating for me to go with the eighteen to thirty-five age range that they use on surveys?"

"Glad to know the Botox is doing its job."

"I see _a lot_ of dermatological fillers working here. I can't be fooled."

She reaches for an extra slice of lime, shooting him a blink-and-you'll-miss-it smile.

"I'll be thirty-four in—" he checks his Apple Watch "—an hour and six minutes."

"Oh," Rey says, hoping her face doesn't betray the slight tinge of disappointment she feels. "Well, I'm ten years behind you. Plenty of time to save up for Restylane." 

"I better give you a good tip, then."

_Oh?_

"I'll do my best to earn it," she replies without missing a beat.

_Thirty-four_. That’s...on the high side for her. He's an actual adult man. Why would he take an interest in a woman who's still active in the Arrowverse fandom? Whose big plans for after her shift include a bag of microwave kettle corn and a short marathon of British panels shows she torrented last night. 

"And who will you be celebrating your birthday with?" There's a curious glint in his eye. "Your husband?" She nearly snorts. "Your parents?"

"Oh. No." She delivers the drink to Poe's new friend, using the extra seconds to compose the most minimal explanation. "My parents haven't been in the picture for a long time. I usually just work a normal shift.” She pauses, waiting for the usual look of concern and pity to pass over his face. That’s how people respond when she brings up her absent family. His brow furrows a tiny bit, but he holds her gaze. "I’ve actually never had a real birthday party, so I don’t really feel like I’m missing anything.” 

He nods slowly and Rey wonders if he believes that lie. 

There are a lot of things she misses, even though she can’t specifically recall them. Surely, her family must've held a party for her at some point? She had just been too young to remember.

“Every year, I was forced into a party I didn't want," he says, like he's replaying all of them simultaneously. She regards him coolly. He seems to notice. "I didn’t mean to pry.” 

She nods toward the drink, deflecting his attention. “What do you think?” 

He draws the glass up to his lips, taking a slow, lingering sip. “It’s—I’m trying to think of the word. It’s—" He takes another drink. "Nutty? A little spicy? But...bright_?_” 

“The orange livens up the flavor profile. Do you like it?” 

His phone lights up again, but he doesn't seem to notice.

“I like it." Tall Guy sets the glass down gently on the coaster and looks back up at her from under hooded eyes. "Very much."

"It's a Boulevardier. A Negroni with bourbon instead of gin. Except I used rye for you—High West Double Rye." She feels herself talking quickly and _a lot_. "It's nice and sturdy to balance out the vermouth. Carpano Antica. Has nice vanilla notes, kind of rich, but not—"

“—not too sweet?” he finishes. 

"Yeah," Rey says softly, busying her hands by wiping up a microscopic spot of condensation on the bartop. "Sorry for rambling at you. I like to tinker with the recipes, when I get the chance." She breathes out and looks back up at him. "If the customer doesn't mind."

He hasn't turned his attention away. 

"The customer doesn't mind. At all." He swirls the drink around once, looking down at the chilled rocks glass. "I like your orange twist. Very elegant."

Rey isn't sure why she's feeding this. She doesn't date customers. Period. Even if she wanted to, the bar is usually full of people _on_ dates, people waiting for their dates, or already coupled people waiting for a table to open up. She's struck up a few promising conversations, only to have the guy's Bumble date turn up and be gorgeous and funny and charming and suddenly the cute, amusing-enough bartender doesn't seem quite so appealing.

But maybe there's something—

"Ben!" a gravelly voice shouts from the entrance. A regal looking woman sweeps past the hostess stand and heads straight for the bar, while a man in a well-worn leather jacket stops to check in with Paige. 

_We have a first name_. Does he look like a Ben? She mentally tries it out for size. Ben is definitely a name you can _moan_.

"Leia." They kiss each other on the cheek, a bit stiff and formal. He has some very obvious physical boundaries, Rey notes, tossing another red flag on the pile. His mother goes in for a hug anyway. 

_Ben_ winces. 

"I hope you haven't been waiting long. Your father insisted on stopping at Chewie's beforehand. It's never 'just five minutes.' " 

Rey pours fresh pints for Rose and Finn while listening intently to the conversation. It helps that the taps are conveniently located on this end of the bar.

"You _drove_ here together? In one car?"

"Let's sit down, I have your presents. You can open them before we eat." She holds up a large shopping bag stuffed with professionally wrapped boxes and a helium-filled balloon sticking up a few feet in the air. "Luke just called," she adds. "Did you really need to—"

"I'll meet you at the table. I need to close out my tab," he says, glancing at Rey as he digs in his pocket for his wallet. “Fuck," he says, once his mother is out of earshot. "She's going to 'secretly' order a giant slice of cake for me, so I can blow out a candle, like I'm five years old and we didn't put each other through twenty years of miserable bullshit. I stopped eating refined sugars three years ago. I've told her this. And still—"

"Yeah, how _awful_," Rey snaps, unable to put the brakes on her unfiltered thoughts. His distaste for his own parents isn't exactly endearing. "A family who actually cares about you."

His eyes flash with something akin to hurt.

"It's not—" he pauses, scanning her face. "It's complicated. I'm...I'm trying to meet them halfway." He holds out a black American Express Centurion card. "I deliberately picked this restaurant because your waitstaff is not going to come out and sing to me." He looks up at her. "I hope." 

Rey feels her features soften back into something one level more approachable than Resting Bitch Face.

"Well, who knows?" She grabs the card between her fingers, but he doesn't let go of his end. "You might get lucky tonight."

"Are you threatening to walk over to our table and serenade me?"

She turns the card slightly, checking for the last name, like a bit of a creep. _Solo_. 

Odd. Maybe a little foreboding. A warning.

She lets the heavy plastic (or is this one of those pretentious metal cards?) slide through her fingers.

"Tell you what. The drink is on me. I hope it helps."

_Ben Solo_ takes the card back, keeping his eyes on her face. Like he's trying to decipher something.

"Thank you."

He's slipping the card back into his wallet when she adds:

"Oh, you can still tip on a free drink, though."

He looks a little taken aback and fumbles with his billfold. 

"Can you break a hundred?" he asks, nervously leafing through a crisp little stack of cash. "I was saving the smaller bills for the valet." 

Rey watches him for a beat longer than she should, biting back a smile. 

"I was just—" 

"Can I—" 

"—fucking with you."

He draws in a quick breath and then hesitates. Her eyes meander down to his lips while she waits for him to continue, but he doesn't. _Fucking with you_ just hangs in the air. He moves his jaw back and forth, like he's wrestling with something, as he shoves his wallet back in his suit pocket.

"Ben!" his mother shouts from across the dining room, causing several patrons to turn their heads. "Lando's here. Surprise!"

He sighs quietly. 

"I should…" he nods toward their four-top, but he doesn't turn around right away. "Thank you, again." He grabs the rocks glass, which looks small in his hand, giving her a last look before heading for his table. 

"Cheers," she says, almost to herself as she watches him shake the hand of a well-dressed man holding an elegant gold cane. 

Rose and Finn are still laughing and inching into each other's personal space. It looks cozy. Inviting. Maybe they hit that one-in-a-million jackpot tonight. 

Sometimes she's tempted to spin that wheel, too. 

But it's safer on this side of the bar.

\--


	2. Cinderella at 11:59 pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey is a very thirsty bartender and she is ready to SERVE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for one of my college roommates, who worked at Olive Garden over the summer and taught me all about how OG waiters fucking hate having to sing the birthday song at the table. Thanks for the breadsticks, Mike! And Buona Festa!

She's tried a few other service industry positions: server, line cook, assistant manager of a Wendy's for one particularly long summer. But Rey prefers bartending. Maybe she's too territorial for anything else.

There's no waiting on dishes at the pass. Her drinks are made according to _her_ standards—no one else's. She puts in real effort to earn her tips.

And it can be social. Her regulars are almost like friends, if friends tipped you for a well-made Sazerac. But she can also deliver a perfect cocktail and conveniently disappear from her customer's line of sight when they want some semblance of privacy. When there's a sock hanging from the doorknob, you leave the apartment. The bar is the same way. There's always unobtrusive side work to do. But she can do side work and _notice _things.

Right now, for example, she observes Poe and Lavender Hair's verbal sparring blurring into something like outright flirtation. There's definitely some sexual tension there, although there's _usually_ sexual tension when Poe is involved. 

Rose and Finn are nursing their final beers down to the very last drop. When she insists on paying her own tab, Finn counter-insists on buying a dessert for them to share. Rey puts in their order for the incredibly decadent Brooklyn Blackout cake—the one they use for people celebrating special occasions—and tries not to think about how no one has ever purchased a birthday cake (or a birthday cupcake or a birthday ice cream sundae with a brownie on the bottom or a birthday donut) on her behalf. 

Could she walk into a Carvel and buy a Fudgie the Whale ice cream cake and dig into its adorable little body with a plastic spoon in the parking lot of the strip mall down the block? Sure. 

But it's not really the same, is it? It serves six to eight people for a reason. You're supposed to share Fudgie with people who care about you.

So maybe she can't quite muster up much sympathy for Tall Guy's irritation. So what if his mother wants to watch him blow out a single candle planted in buttercream that he doesn't want to eat? 

It's so hard to imagine _not_ wanting that...resisting the affection of your own mother in such a petty way. What she wouldn't fucking give to have her family take her out for a birthday meal—_any meal_, really, even KFC—and swap stories about her childhood. To hear about the night she was born. To feel loved and wanted and treasured for just one evening. 

Rey muddles a sprig of mint a little too vigorously, letting her unfocused gaze wander to Ben Solo's profile, where it immediately zeroes in on every detail like a telephoto lens. With his long nose, he looks like a Greek or Roman bust from this vantage point: stern, a little proud, vaguely melancholy.

It's pointless to feel resentful of him. She knows all too well that the way something looks on the outside doesn't always reflect the reality. Everyone in the world has something to be miserable about.

But there's still a sharp pang of jealousy there. 

It doesn't stop her from staring longingly at his sad eyes, like she's waiting for him—maybe willing him—to glance over at the bar. He's done it twice, but she still finds herself anticipating the next time—her mind screaming _look at me_ every time his head moves. She notices every goddamn thing about him, including the way he slowly sips the drink she'd made him, like he's really savoring it. 

She's so engrossed in watching the way his lips touch the rim of the glass, that she barely registers his mother approaching the bar, with a conspiratorial gleam in her eye.

"I have a proposition for you," she begins. Rey barely stops herself from jumping to the conclusion that this woman is about to invite her to join them at the table as Ben's date for the evening. 

She does not invite her to do that. 

"It's my son's birthday. Is there _any_ way I can persuade you to...make a bit of a spectacle about it? I know you probably don't do that kind of thing here. I get it, this isn’t an Olive Garden. But we have this tradition…" 

Rey nods politely as she continues, keeping one eye on the table. His father and the suave man with a cane are reminiscing loudly, their gestures growing more effusive, while Ben looks on, like he's watching this through a window, instead of as a participant. 

That's how she feels a lot of the time, watching would-be romances ignite and flame out right in front of her. She's an audience for their happiness or frustration or disappointment. She can mix a drink to make them bolder or ease the pain. But she doesn't get involved. 

"Our policy is usually just to bring a special dessert to the table," Rey explains, "but we don't, uh, perform a song. We have these very elegant sparkling candles that—"

His mother discreetly slides two fifty dollar bills (_what _is_ it with this family and being extra about cash?_) across the bar. 

"I missed a lot of birthdays when he was growing up. It would mean so much to me." 

It's not really the money that does it. There's something commanding about the woman's presence. She has this—this _gravitas_ that compels Rey to nod sympathetically and agree to "come up with something." 

She does, however, pocket the cash. 

* * *

"Where the fuck are the matches?" Hux drops a dessert plate with an enormous slice of the Blackout cake on the counter in front of Rey. "I have other tables, you know. I'm not a bloody clown at a child's birthday party," he mutters, as he runs the four-way split check from Table 17.

It's a bold claim, considering that Hux is currently part of the chorus in a community theater production of _Pippin_, and quite literally _is_ a clown three nights a week_._

Rey stares at the dark chocolate ganache.

"Is this for, uh, the tall... with the..." she makes some kind of hand motion in front of her face—the universal symbol for _the man I am very sexually attracted to at Table 4_.

Hux looks up from the POS.

"Just hurry up and light the fucking candle." He grabs a dessert fork. "I'm getting twenty dollars to sing Happy Birthday to an adult man."

Rey glances back over at Tall Guy. His leg is bouncing up and down under the table. It's probably some nervous habit triggered by the stress of sharing a meal with his parents, but it's also leading her mind in other, very distracting directions. Directions that involve shaky legs and another sort of bouncing. 

"Don't serve the cake," she blurts out, surprised to hear her own voice. "He's not gonna want this." 

"What the fuck are you on about?" Hux flips a section of orange-red hair out of his eyes and reaches for the plate. "You're not in charge of this table."

Rey grabs the dessert fork, mashes it into the cake a few times and takes a bite. "There," she says, with her mouth full. "You can't serve it now." 

The cake is a lot more delicious than Fudgie the Whale. 

"Are you fucking mental? That was the last piece! I'll have to bring them a scoop of passion fruit gelato."

"He doesn't want gelato. Give me two minutes. I have a better idea.” She grabs a cocktail glass. “And don't sing to him. I'll give you ten dollars _not_ to sing."

Hux must really want the full twenty dollars, because a minute and fifty three seconds later, he saunters over to Table 4, flanked by Tallie, Paige, and Kaydel, who stand behind him like reluctant back up singers. He takes a deep breath from his diaphragm and launches into the first three notes of "Happy Birthday to You" just as Rey grabs her matches from behind the bar. 

She weaves around the other tables, aggressively shouldering her way past Hux, and sets down the stem of a cocktail glass directly in front of Ben. He still seems impossibly large even when seated. Without making eye contact, she quickly strikes a match, holding it steady in her right hand, while positioning a large slice of grapefruit peel in her left. 

The small but impactful burst of flame right over the drink is just enough of a distraction from Hux’s singing. The table spontaneously erupts in applause and a smattering of _ooh_s, stopping him cold before he gets to the second line. 

The birthday boy's face—_birthday grown-ass man's face, rather_—floods with relief. But she doesn't want to stick around, intruding on a family's private celebration. She has work to do. 

Rey mic drops the peel into the glass and backs away from Table 4 as stealthily as she’d arrived, ignoring whatever irate stare Hux is shooting at her back, letting the scent of citrus oil linger in the air behind her. 

There’s a new ticket to work on, but she really only wants to stand behind the bar, absentmindedly swiping a rag over the already-clean cutting board, sneaking glances at Ben Solo—she thinks she really likes that name, actually—and throwing up a tiny prayer that his deep brown eyes are searching for her, too. Maybe God truly is a woman because their gazes somehow connect. His knee is bouncing faster—not that she’s looking down there—and Rey bites her lip to keep from smiling.

_I don't need _that_ right now_, she insists to herself, while imagining what the texture of his hair would feel like in between her fingers. 

A guy who doesn't appreciate his own family. A guy who hangs up on someone without a word. A guy who gets in public altercations, en route to his own birthday celebration. All things Rey does not want to get involved with. No matter how tall he is.

She scoops some crushed ice for a fucking Rum Swizzle (_really, Karen at Table 12?_) and the condensation on the highball glass doesn't at all help paint a mental picture of Tall Guy—_Ben _fucking _Solo_, her brain helpfully reminds her—running a single ice cube down her neck and spine, while she lies on her stomach...in his bed, which she has already decided is a very roomy king. And the explosion of ginger ale shooting out of the soda gun certainly doesn't call to mind how he might—

"Thank you." 

Rey nearly sprays him—_Ben_, the voice in her head reverently moans—with the ginger ale as her arm jolts in surprise. He's leaning over the bar, holding the drink—_her drink_—in his large hand. (Yeah, she notices its size, she sees _a lot_ of hands, okay?) 

"I thought you might appreciate it more than the enormous piece of cake Hux was about to serve you." A faint wisp of sugar and smoke floats lazily off the drink. "It tasted great by the way. Best thing I put in my mouth all week." 

"You ate it?" 

She nods, dropping a pineapple wedge onto the rim of the highball glass. 

"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed my cake. In your mouth." 

She clears her throat and places the Rum Swizzle on the pass.

"Thoroughly." 

He lifts up his drink. "What's in this one?" 

"You like it?"

He nods twice. The light from the Edison bulbs in the rustic fixtures over the bar glints in his eyes as he moves his head. Like magic.

"It's mezcal and tonic, with a honey and coarse sea salt rim. I think I'm going to name it 'Birthday Lubricant.' " 

His eyebrow quirks; she feels her mouth twitch.

"Show me how you set an orange peel on fire."

“Grapefruit peel." She wipes off clean cutting board again. "And you thought I was kidding about those TGI Fridays videos." Rey nods at his parents. "Don't you need to get back to your table, being the guest of honor and all?"

"I told them I needed to use the restroom." The way he says _restroom_ immediately triggers a vision of his hands—his large hands—making their way up under her skirt while she's pressed up against the cold subway tile wall next to the paper towel dispenser. 

"You know your family can see that you're standing at the bar, right?"

He could yank her underwear down her thighs until they fall to the ground. 

"Show me." 

He could stuff them in his pocket.

Even though Table 10 is waiting for a new round of cocktails, she reaches for the partially peeled grapefruit, not breaking eye contact. 

With her sharp paring knife, she slowly cuts a wide strip of peel away from the flesh of the fruit, cognizant of how he's staring at her fingers. 

Or.

It’s possible he’s actually staring at the way her nipples are protruding through the thin fabric of her top and unlined bra in the aggressive air conditioning. 

She sets the grapefruit down and hands him a matchbox.

"Audience participation." 

He opens the tiny drawer of matches, removes one, and drags it against the striker. Rey waits for the sulphur to burn away from the head of the match and then moves his half-finished drink beneath the flame, letting this play out a little more dramatically than the technique requires. 

He doesn't seem to be in any hurry.

She squeezes the peel into a C-shape, with the skin facing the fire, letting the citrus oils ignite in a quick flash of yellow and orange, just like before.

But this fire seems a little bigger. A tiny bit hotter. Maybe she squeezes the peel harder this time. 

Rose and Finn clap from the other end of the bar. Lavender Hair slides off her barstool, a good six inches taller than Poe, who follows suit. 

"That's what I'm ordering next time," Poe says, as he places his hand on the small of Lavender's back. Rey catches the woman's slight look of annoyance at the gesture as she slides the strap of her handbag over her shoulder.

She gives them a quick wave in acknowledgement, noting that this particular hook-up is definitely destined to be part of the 37% satisfying range. 

"I need Table Ten!” Tallie shouts from the pass. 

The smoky air between Rey and Ben smells like citrusy incense for a few seconds. His drink will be unbalanced now, but she doubts he cares.

"I should finish making these mar—"

"So I owe you two drinks now," he says, blowing out the remainder of the matchstick and letting it smolder on the polished concrete. She's about to remind him that she ate his cake or that his mother already overtipped, when he reaches over the bar, his hand coming dangerously close to her face. 

Rey freezes. She's never let any customer cross that threshold; she's not a huge fan of being touched, in general. 

By most people.

His fingers move past her cheek, just barely brushing against the shell of her ear, and she feels a tug on the messy bun at the back of her head.

And _God_. He could pull on her hair—kind of roughly, actually—if she knelt at his feet, looking up at him with watery eyes, her lips swollen, mascara lightly streaking from her lower lashes…

She inhales sharply.

When she sees his hand again, he's holding the pen she'd stuck into her top knot at the beginning of her shift. 

He grabs one of the thick paperboard coasters and pushes it over to her side of the bar, dropping the pen on top of it.

"Your number."

Her heart is thumping so hard, Rey is sure he can see it. She pauses, collecting herself, before picking up the pen and trying to remember what the fuck her number is. She scrawls the digits above the Jakkü logo, throwing in "Rey (2 birthday drinks)" for good measure. 

"I could just put it in your phone, you know." She shoves the pen back into her bun and pushes the coaster over to him. "Or is this a thing you do at bars and restaurants?" 

For a moment, their fingertips touch and Rey really notices how his hand dwarfs hers. 

It could completely cover one of her tits. 

She’s thinking about that as the coaster slides out from under her light touch and he picks it up, examining it. A little shiver runs down her spine

"I was curious about your handwriting," he says, stepping back from the bar. “It can be very revealing.” She can't say he looks impressed, but who gives a shit about penmanship in 2019? He moves the coaster back and forth in between his fingers. "I hope this is your real number."

Rey feels a little smile slowly spread across her lips as he turns around to return to his table and she grabs a shaker and the Absolut Vanilla to get started on the next round of disgusting cocktails for Table 10. 

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Rey is getting a head start on her closing checklist, when she sees Ben's mother push back her chair and stand up. There's a quick stir of emotion in her gut. If historical data is an accurate predictor of the future, there's a good chance won’t hear from him.

Men always seem interested in her when they’re sitting at the bar with a drink in their hand. When they get home? Not so much.

She watches Ben lean down to pick up the Sur La Table shopping bag overflowing with unwrapped presents. 

Rey wonders if he actually cooks, or if this is his mom's way of encouraging him to eat less takeout. She pictures herself shuffling out of his bedroom, wearing his shirt, guided by the smell of sizzling bacon and vanilla french toast.

She pinches her forearm, forcing herself out of her most ambitious reverie yet. No one's ever made breakfast for her. She keeps a Costco-sized box of toaster waffles in her freezer, so there's really no need. 

Rose and Finn, now the last customers at the bar, get up from their stools, all cute and smiley and maybe a little unsure as to how to end the night. She wonders if Finn will text Rose later to make sure she got home safely. And maybe Rose will respond with two kissy face emojis and say something adorable that Rey never would, like "nini." 

She clears away their empty beer glasses and overhears them ordering a single Lyft and her heart clenches a little bit. Apparently they aren't unsure at all. 

_Oh._ Well. Cheers to them.

Rey tries not to keep glancing at Ben's family as she places the glassware in the dishwasher. They're all politely waiting for their friend with the cane to slowly make his way to the door.

Her eyes shoot up as Ben turns his head, giving her a look that she can’t quite decipher. For all her skill at intuiting everyone else's facial expressions and body language, she can’t unravel him. 

So she holds her breath, waiting to see what he’ll do—if he’ll walk back over to the bar. To say goodnight. To stay a little longer. To invite her somewhere else. It feels shockingly possible. For once. Just this once.

“Rey?” Kaydel calls from the back hallway. “Can you help me with the trash?”

She blows out a breath. _Sure. Of course I can help with the fucking trash_. Right this very second. 

And while she’s tossing trash bags in the dumpster, he’ll hand over his valet ticket and drive off in his beautiful car. Rey will finish her closing tasks, go home, and pretend that she doesn’t care if he texts or not. 

_I don't need _that_ right now_. _Don't date customers. Never get involved. _

Except. 

She really, _really_ wants to get a text from him. She wants to get a text and do something risky, like respond with a shockingly explicit, yet somehow tasteful and artistic photo and not worry about whether it will end up on the r/gonewild subreddit tomorrow. She wants him to reply with his address, or a hotel name and room number, or offer to pick her up in his car immediately. 

It feels dangerous, but something inside her is tugging. She could give him a birthday present he would never forget. She wants to know exactly what his hands are capable of and how they feel against her skin—something more than just two fingers brushing against each other. She needs his mouth to explore every fucking part of her body until she surrenders a part of herself to him.

She needs all of that to happen right now, actually. Not in three days, when the heady thrill of their brief flirtation gets watered down into "some bartender who gave me her number."

No. It needs to be tonight. Because birthdays are fucking important. Birthday sex is second only to makeup sex. 

And maybe hate sex. 

Rey has never experienced birthday sex, but she’s sure it’s a thousand times better than whatever kitchen gadgets are in that shopping bag.

The valet stand is 20 second jog from the rear exit. 

She has also never had sex in a car.

That's why, instead of helping with the trash, Rey asks Kaydel to cover the bar, mumbling something about a vape break (she has never vaped) and checking inventory for tomorrow; she doesn't wait for her to agree. It's so fucking irresponsible, but there's no time to second-guess. 

_....birthday sex... _

Telling herself this is a good growth opportunity for Kaydel, she hurries past the kitchen and through the backdoor next to the dumpster, brushing past the sous chef who is taking a real break with a cigarette.

_...in a car..._

Her head swims as if she's consumed every drink she's served tonight.

_....with a very tall, possibly volatile man..._

Ben's family is at the front door, saying their stilted goodbyes when Rey corners Mitaka in front of the valet podium. She feels like Cinderella at 11:59 pm. If this doesn't happen in the next minute, she'll be heaving trash bags into the dumpster.

"Let me pull the Jaguar around," she says, breathlessly, eyeing the key box.

He looks utterly baffled.

"Shouldn't you be inside?" 

Rey is pretty sure she could kick his ass, but there's an easier way to do this. Shoving her hand into her pocket, she comes up with a crumpled 50 dollar bill. 

"Maybe you didn't hear me." She presses it into his hand. "Let me pull the Jaguar around. It would mean _so_ much to me." 

Three seconds later, the key fob is in her hand.

* * *

Ben is waiting alone at the valet stand, still holding the bag and the attached balloon, looking wistfully at something in the distance, when his car roars to a skidding halt right in front of him.

Even idling, the sound of the engine rumbles loud enough to turn heads inside the restaurant.

Rey rolls down the driver's window. 

"Get in." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now....Are you ready for birthday car sex?


	3. You Got Lucky This Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bIRthDaY cAr seX
> 
> That's it. That's the tweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The uncut peen is all for you, **@delia-pavorum**. Thanks also to **@selunchen** for the, um, technical consult. 
> 
> PSA: please practice safe sex in real life, everyone.

If the man formerly known as Tall Guy seemed emotionally disheveled when he first planted himself at the bar, he's exuding a very different kind of nervous energy now, in the passenger seat of his own vehicle. 

It’s a small, sporty car for such a large man. 

The visibility is terrible, the trunk could barely fit his bag of presents (he had to pop the balloon), and it's a two-seater, which puts a significant crimp in her vision of how this would go.

It's also the nicest car Rey has ever sat in, let alone driven. It’s sex on wheels—_literally_, if things go her way. 

Just the simple act of gripping the flat-bottom steering wheel seems to supply a BDE power-up. It's showy, unbelievably loud, and the driver's seat is like sculpted buttery leather under her bare legs. 

Rey isn't offended when Ben buckles his seatbelt. She's not totally sure what she'll do outside the confines of this parking lot, either. The engine roars in front of her as she lightly taps the accelerator, ignoring a baffled look from Mitaka. Luckily the valet service is run by a separate company, so there's no boss for him to tattle to. Except for the police. 

Hopefully. 

In any case, it's probably the best 50 dollars she's ever spent.

Rey can't help but smile like an idiot as she steps on the gas, really loving the obscene sounds from the exhaust and the way the engine responds to her with brute force, almost snarling at the Jeep behind them. Holy shit, she could do some damage in this thing. 

Maybe she doesn't need to peel out of the parking lot quite so fast. Maybe she shouldn't have left Kaydel alone with a full twenty minutes until closing when a party of ten people could wander in and order a round of White Russians. Maybe the voice urging her to turn right and take herself for a quick joyride in this near stranger's car is part of some dark, self-destructive impulse that will get her in trouble later. 

But she doesn’t fucking care about _later_ right now.

"Is this a kidnapping?" Ben asks. She's looking at the road, but she can tell from his inflection that there's a smile, or something smile-adjacent on his face. "Pretty sure the speed limit is—"

"I'm supposed to be vaping right now. It doesn't take very long to vape," she half-yells, over the noisy wind blasting through the open windows. The loose tendrils of hair slip out of her bun and whip around her face. "As far as I know."

"You're on your break?" he yells back.

She almost laughs at that. 

"We don't get breaks." She slows down at the next intersection and veers into the left turn lane. His eyes move down and up her body as the car idles. 

The green arrow lights up and Rey makes an unnecessarily sharp left, probably leaving a faint smear of rubber on the pavement the way a sultry woman in a movie might swipe a tube of lipstick across a mirror.

"Are you taking me back to your lair?" he asks, nearly smacking his head against the window as she quickly makes a hard right into a parking lot.

“You ask a lot of questions.” She circles around to the back of a dark building.

He squints at the pagoda-shaped red roof through the windshield. "Your lair is a Pizza Hut?"

"It used to be a Pizza Hut." Rey reluctantly cuts the engine and the decibel level drops to a shocking quiet. The silence seems to swallow the nervy, adrenaline-fueled confidence she'd felt three minutes ago. "I think there was an arson. A disgruntled employee. Something about insurance money and a lawsuit with the franchisee and now people mostly come here to buy Adderall from this kid with an orange backpack..."

She feels him staring at her with a bemused expression, like he's charmed by her nervous babbling. His mouth looks so fucking kissable up close, she's pretty sure she loses the thread of the story, or trails off, or mumbles a string of cliches like "full," "plush," and "bitten" with no context.

"Do you—" he peers out the passenger window "—come here often?" _Seriously, though: who gave him the right to have lips that full?_ "For, uh, Adderall?"

She presses her own, less-plush, lips together and shakes her head, even though she has purchased Adderall in this parking lot at least three times. 

"It's the least populated place I could think of around here."

But looking at the defunct Pizza Hut, she wonders if she really thought about this at all. How, exactly, does one take all the crazy shit that unfurled in her imagination thirty minutes ago and evolve it into actual birthday sex? In a car? With no backseat...

The silence is punctuated by the literal sound of crickets and the soft hum of the state of the art climate control system. His knee is bouncing violently enough to lightly shake both of their seats. He's probably coming up with five different strategies for disengaging from this situation, while she's picturing what her fingers would look like sliding into his mouth. Full mouth._ Plush mouth_.

_Ugh_. This is why people have idle fantasies: so they don't actually have to leave the safe confines of their own minds. 

She's about to jab at the red, pulsing ignition button and drop herself back off at the restaurant (_humiliating_), because it's his fucking birthday and he probably just wants to go _home_, when his beautiful (_plush_) mouth opens again.

"So...is this a date or a robbery?"

She pulls her hand back onto her lap. _Date?_

Before she can muster a response, he continues: "Did you think you weren't going to hear from me? Because I texted you from the valet stand." 

"Y-you did?" She places her hands on her pockets, feeling for the hard outline of her phone and getting nothing but the elastic waistband of her underwear digging into her hips. 

Her phone is face down somewhere on the bar. 

Ben shifts and reaches toward his zip—no, his _pocket_—and pulls out his own phone, showing her a screen with a single text message. 

> ** When do you get off?**

Yes, _when_?

"That would have been just before you stole my car." He swallows. She wants to lick a stripe up his throat. "Are you...armed? Because you keep peeling things in front of me. With very sharp knives."

He’s not wrong. 

"I left the knife at my station. It's not...a robbery." She hits the button to raise the driver's side window, making it feel a tiny bit more private. "Kind of the opposite." 

"A gift?"

"I want you to take something from me."

"You already made me two drinks." He’s looking directly at her lips. "You're very generous."

"People should get what they want on their birthdays." She nods at the tiny trunk, now stuffed with a shopping bag full of overpriced kitchen equipment. "Did you get what you want?"

Something pulses and aches inside her. He gives her a steady, serious look. 

"Not yet."

She's suddenly extremely aware of the way blood rushes through her body—it's like she can feel it pushing through her veins and arteries. 

Without giving it a second—or first—thought, she jams her fingers against the buckle of her seatbelt and it releases with a very pleasing _click_.

The expression on his face is more than enough of an invitation for her to lean over the center console, tilt her head to the right and seize the one thing she's wanted this entire night.

He leaves her hanging for a fraction of a second. Just long enough for the slightest hint of panic to ping in her brain. 

Which makes it all the more exciting when she feels his warm breath against the corner of her mouth just as she’s about to open her eyes.

His lips are as soft and pliable as she expected. Yes, _plush_. They're surprisingly gentle with each other at first, easing into the kiss, opening up slowly, as if there’s all the fucking time in the world. Her right hand moves over his cheek and around his ear and she lets her fingers bury themselves in his hair. He tastes like mezcal and smoke and honey and Rey tries not to think about the fact that she probably tastes like the two Diet Cokes she drank during her shift. And maybe his chocolate cake. 

Even with the windows rolled up, there's a flurry of sound. Skin and fabric sliding across thick leather upholstery, the chunky rubber heel of her left Doc Marten banging up against the bottom of the driver's side door. Heavy breathing that’s beginning to evolve into panting. Her nails scratching down his scalp. 

She hasn't done this with anyone in awhile—_shit_, it's been months, hasn’t it?—and she feels herself reaching further and further over the console, needy as fuck. Pushing for more and getting it right back from him. 

Her left fist grabs for his tie and yanks him closer and suddenly her mouth is running over his cheek, his jaw, sucking on his earlobe. 

God. 

_God_. 

“Do you like this?” she murmurs. Somehow the words themselves sound wet.

There’s a response, but it’s not in any form of language she’s familiar with. It sounds like a vowel-heavy keyboard smash.

It feels so fucking good to be wanted—to have his hands all over her, searching for a way to get underneath her black knit top. 

"Ow."

The silver-plated gearshift juts painfully in her left side as she twists toward him.

There’s no way to work around the carbon fiber console (_why the fuck did he opt for such a ridiculous trim package?_), so Rey swings her left leg all the way over to the passenger side—knocking into about five of the climate control dials with the heavy sole of her boot. It’s a clumsy maneuver, but somehow she finds herself hovering over his lap, facing him. Tall Guy. Ben Solo. 

Now it's much easier for his hands to slide over the curve of her waist and along her rib cage, fingers edging up to the underside of her breasts. She breathes a ragged sigh into his mouth.

It's okay that her right foot is still planted somewhere near the pedals on the driver's side and she's straddling almost the entire width of the car. Her skirt must be riding up halfway over her ass at this point.

Doesn't matter. 

_More_. _Now. _

She doesn't give him a chance to catch his breath before she's nibbling and sucking down his neck, loosening his tie enough to tackle the buttons of his shirt, working her way down.

There are too many layers. Way too many layers.

Her imagination runs wild with ideas about what's underneath.

He's already struggling to get his arms through the sleeves of his jacket in the tight confines of the passenger seat, but Rey is nothing if not efficient. 

She goes straight for his belt, tearing into the buckle and whipping the leather through his belt loops. 

In five seconds, his pants are unbuttoned, unzipped, and pulled down just enough for her to get to his underwear, when she feels something warm—almost _hot_—against his legs. 

“Do you feel okay? You’re burning up—"

He shifts in his seat, looking around like he's snapping out of a trance.

“Oh shit, the seat warmer is on.” 

“I must have kicked something.” Rey feels around behind her for climate controls. “Can you reach it? Or—I mean,” she pauses, as he fumbles with the button, “are you into it?”

His finger hesitates. 

“Maybe I’ll just...turn it down a bit.” 

He pushes on the button twice and leans back against the seat.

“Do you like that?”

“It feels..." he furrows his brow, like he's trying to solve the logic puzzle of how they can fit on the same seat. "This can't be comfortable for you—"

"I'm fine," she insists, even as her abs shake from the effort of hovering over him. “I wanna make you feel so good.” Rey touches her hand to the soft material of his boxer briefs and he sucks in a breath.

"You don't have to do anything you're not—"

“I wanted to do this all night.” She runs her fingers lightly over the extremely prominent bulge that's straining under the fabric. “You seemed so tense when you sat down at the bar." He looks slightly flustered, as her fingers work their way under the elastic waistband of his underwear. "Let me.”

If he answers verbally, she doesn't hear it. But she reads his body language loud and clear. 

His body language, along with the subtle, motorized drone of the passenger seat slowly sliding all the way back, as far as it will go, creating more room at his feet.

It’s still a tight squeeze. Moving her legs down to the passenger seat floorboard requires a little bit of logistical ingenuity, but she manages to tuck herself in, kneeling—uncomfortably—on the textured mat in between his legs, with just barely enough room to move. Ben manages to lift his hips off the seat so she can tug his waistband down just enough. 

Out of nowhere, there's a sharply drawn breath—she realizes she's the source of it after the immediate shock of seeing his cock free of the snug confines of premium cotton-spandex. 

He's uncut. That's new for her. And..._big_. 

Like. Really big. 

She blows out a breath that might just as well have been a whistle.

Her hand looks so fucking miniscule alongside it, still clutching the elastic. His entire torso, still partially covered by his half-unbuttoned shirt, rises and falls in a quick rhythm. 

She's breathing fast, too. Who knew you could feel a racing heartbeat in your throat?

She starts by touching him, as featherlight as she can, her fingertips moving from the base to the tip. The tickle of her breath against the soft skin seems to make him twitch. With an exhale, she presses her thumb—tentatively—against the underside of the head.

A bead of precum leaks out. 

His breath stutters as she touches her tongue to it, tasting the salty tang, looking up at him.

"Show me what you like?"

"Just—" he works his jaw for a moment, before reaching for her hand and enveloping it around his cock, showing her how he touches himself "—yeah, gentle at first. That's-that's good. Really very-very good..."

He takes his hand out of the equation, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear. 

Rey likes the way he's death gripping the side of the deep bucket seat with his left hand and touching her face with his right. It's intoxicating, triggering this kind of response in a man, teetering between hot-_degrading_ and hot-_powerful-sex-witch_. 

On another night she would take her time with this, really tease him for as long as he could stand it, but the Jaguar logo on the floor mat is already making a deep indent on her left knee and she doesn't have the luxury of drawing it out much longer. She glides her tongue around the head, as lightly as possible, wishing she had read that _Bustle_ listicle on uncircumcised blow job techniques a little more carefully.

"F-fuck. Ahh, fuck," he utters, his hips jerking a little bit, as she nudges the tip of her tongue on the underside of the foreskin. She's pretty sure one of the listicle items suggested treating it a little bit like a clit. 

It seems to be working.

The metal decoration on the handle of the glove compartment digs into her back as she opens a little wider, taking the entire tip in her warm mouth, sucking gently at the head, experimenting. She listens to him groan in response, raw and almost feral. 

It's one of the most satisfying things she's ever heard. It's...Nina Simone's voice, the smack of a perfectly centered high five, the sizzle of a steak hitting the little grill she keeps on her patio on the first day of summer, and _this_.

He reaches for her shirt, bunching the fabric in his fist and yanking up until she has to move her face and arms away so he can tear it over her head. _Is this a good bra?_ She can barely remember what a bra _is_. Her hands and mouth return to his cock immediately, like there's an invisible elastic cord connecting them. 

She just wants to take him deeper, suck a tiny bit harder, make him want this—_want her_—a little more with every passing second. 

Very gently, she pulls the foreskin back, like he'd shown her, exposing the tip, and he seems to shudder. 

"You can—_fuck_—you can move it up and-and down," he says, barely managing to get the words out. 

She tries to imitate what he did earlier, carefully moving it back and forth over the head, not too fast, before pulling it back again and softly pressing and flicking her tongue against the newly exposed tip.

He makes this low, guttural sound and it's the most fucking encouraging thing she's ever heard. She mentally vows to stay down here, wedged between his calves and the glove compartment, rolling her tongue around the head of his cock for another hour if it means hearing him make that sound again. 

She feels his thick fingers force their way through her twisted bun, grabbing ahold of the back of her head. Her stomach clenches and she reminds herself to relax her throat. 

But he's not rough. He barely even pushes—just light pressure. A little bit of tugging on her hair and she moves her forward and back, slowly—almost painfully slowly—until her lips meet the base of his groin. She stops there, whimpering a little bit, just on the edge of what she'd thought was possible, with his cock nudging at the back of her throat.

"Rey," he breathes. _Is this what it's like to feel powerful?_ "You-you..._fuck_…"

The way he says her name sends a shiver surging down to her core. She didn't necessarily anticipate him remembering it, at least not with his adrenaline pumping. But she wants to hear him say it again, in the exact same helpless way. So she slides her mouth back up his length to give a little more attention to the head, bumping her head against the passenger side airbag compartment in the process.

She pauses with her tongue fluttering just under the tip, looking up at him again while working her hand up and down the shaft. She expects him to have his eyes closed, or be gazing up at the sky through the moonroof, which is about an inch over his head. 

But instead he's staring at her, an expression of disbelief painted across his features, his jaw moving like he's trying and failing to speak.

"Rey." _It really is the best sound_. "Can I fuck you?" His massive hand eases out of her hair and across her face. "Pl-please. Let me." She feels his thumb drift over her swollen lips. She's more than ready to keep going and let him finish in her mouth.

"You don't have a backseat," she points out.

"This car is too fucking small for what I actually wantto do to you." He grabs her shoulders. "But I think if you can sit up here, on top of me..." She must have a dubious expression on her face because he adds, "I want to try. Please."

Rey tries to push up off the floorboard as he tugs on her shoulders, but her whole body is stuck between the front edge of the leather seat and the glove compartment. Ben opens the passenger door for a moment, checking for other cars or teenager Adderall entrepreneurs and finding none. She manages to get her left foot on the illuminated metal treadplate and then on the pavement, creating just enough room for them to get her turned around, on his lap, facing the windshield. Ben lowers the seat as much as possible, but her head is still dangerously close to the moonroof. 

She can feel his cock prodding against her ass, hard and thick and insistent, and _fucking hell_, maybe she was uncertain about attempting this, but she wants to know what it feels like inside her, filling her up completely. 

A moment later, Ben's hands are roaming up her legs, under the miniskirt, pushing it up further, until it’s bunched over her waist. He grabs wildly for her underwear, shoving it roughly to the side, rather than pulling them all the way down. His fingers nestle between her thighs, and she leans back against him, grasping for the headrest, but finding his face instead. 

"You're fucking soaked," he says, almost choking on the words. "God fucking dammit, you're so wet."

She can feel it, too—his slippery fingers moving past her body's slight nervous resistance, while his other arm holds her tight to his chest, his hand palming her breast through her (as it turns out) not-great bra.

She's never heard herself moan like this. It sounds like someone else's voice.

His hand feels like just the right combination of rigid and pliant while he rubs two of his fingers slowly—_deliberately_—inside her. Maybe if they had the luxury of time, she would welcome a lot more of this, but the fifteen-ish vape minute break she granted herself is definitely moving into overtime and _shit_, she needs more. Immediately.

"Ben." Her voice sounds ragged, like she's been singing at the top of her lungs for hours. "Please. Inside me. Now."

Her left boot scrambles for a foothold inside the tray in front of the gear shift. 

"Fuck," he mutters, frantically moving his hands so he can lift up her hips. She reaches for the grab handle above the window—hoping she doesn't break the hinges—bumping her head against the edge of the moonroof. At least it gives them a couple more inches of room to maneuver.

She feels the tip of his cock pressing, easing inside, as he slowly guides her back down onto his lap. Every inch seems to carve out some new, previously discovered territory inside her body, leaving her gasping. Somehow, just when she feels like this _has_ to be it, he just keeps pushing in, expanding what she thought were her limits in a way that feels like way too much, one second, and not enough the next.

"Uhh," she rasps."_Shiiit_." 

She throws her head back against his shoulder and cries out as her ass finally hits his hips. 

They're both still for a good ten seconds. He leans his head down and starts to suck a bruise into her neck, in a spot that will definitely be visible, even with her hair down. 

His right hand finds her clit again, while the other pulls the flimsy cups of her unlined bra down and away from her breasts. His hand does, indeed, easily cover her entire tit, she notes, while he plays with her nipple.

She stares at their slightly skewed reflection in the windshield, glad they're not actually facing each other. That would be too intimate for two people who met (did they technically _meet_?) a couple hours ago and exchanged maybe seven minutes worth of conversation across a bar top. 

Except his mouth is moving up her neck, kissing sloppily behind her ear, and along her jaw. She finds herself turning her head and parting her lips and meeting his tongue with hers and now it feels pretty fucking intimate because he's _inside_ her in two different places right now, stretching her without even doing anything.

His hands make their way back to her hips and she barely has time to catch her breath before he thrusts up into her once...then again. Needing some kind of steadying leverage, Rey reaches for the armrest on the passenger door. He keeps going—a third time and a fourth—until he's rocking into her at an even pace, his mouth still on her neck, lighting up every last nerve ending that wasn't already vibrating with energy.

He digs his fingers into her hips, holding them as steady as possible, keeping her head from knocking into the roof. Maybe it still feels too precarious to him, because he places a hand between her shoulder blades and pushes her torso forward and down a bit, changing the angle. She places her hands over the passenger airbag compartment on the dashboard, digging her fingers into the air vents for a handhold.

There's a different sensation immediately, like he's rubbing against some magical part of her body that she didn't know existed.

"Slow—slow down a sec," she says breathlessly, arching her back, trying to deepen whatever it is. He moves slowly, following her lead as she grinds down on him, using the door for leverage, rotating her hips in a circulation motion, squeezing around his girth as much as she can, given the tight fit. "Move the back of the seat down."

“It’s a twelve-way seat. Can you be more—_fuck_—be more specific?”

“You. Lie back. Further.”

He's good at following instructions. She likes that. 

Rey leans forward a little, deepening an angle that feels particularly spectacular. She bounces on him a little faster and he responds, also clearly appreciating this slight change in position. 

"Oh _fuck_!" he bellows. "Fuck me!" 

"I am!" is all she can think to yell back. 

It's possible they both laugh at that, but all the sounds they're making start to blur together and the whole vehicle is rocking on the pavement. 

"Ben—" she says between moans, "happy birthday."

"This is—_fuck_—the best goddamn birthday I've ever had."

"I was gonna sing to you, as a joke, but I can't remember the words." She also can't remember her name. He reaches around her hip to put his fingers in the perfect position again and Rey feels like she's going to melt off his lap and onto the floor mat. How do such large hands move so fast?

"The only fucking thing I want to hear is whatever you scream when you come on my cock."

So this is what it’s like to be truly _fucked_. Thoroughly. 

She knows she's not coming back from this. Kind of a _might as well delete Tinder and Bumble later tonight because they're useless to me now_ sentiment. And—_and!_—what the hell would this be like without the space constraints of a fucking sports car? Suddenly every single one of her idle fantasies about this man, imagined from behind the safety of the bar, feels very possible. 

"Ben—_oh God_. Oh shit—" Her voice breaks off. Very _probable_, actually.

"I want to hear you." She's so close she feels tears in her eyes. "Give me this." _Just a little more._ "It's all I want. Please." 

Rey has never really been into presents—giving or receiving. She didn't get them as a child and never had the spare cash to purchase things for anyone else. But sometimes the best things in life truly are _free_. 

Actually, sometimes they cost you 50 dollars in valet bribery money, but basically they are free.

And if this is what he really wants for his birthday, then he can have it. 

It would feel so fucking good to just lose control for once. Let go. Give him absolutely everything. 

She's never felt this wanted. Genuinely _wanted_. 

By anyone. 

Ever.

Like he can hear her thoughts, his fingers find this exquisite combination of speed and motion and pressure, making her muscles tense up, sending a shock of pure sensation coursing outward from some deep place inside her body. 

She wants to give him all of that.

"Ah_hh_, _uhh_—Ben—" her voice is hoarse "—take me." She reaches behind her—blindly, wildly—for something to ground her, grabbing a fistful of his hair and nearly smacking him in the nose. "_Take me_."

He's muttering expletives, the fingers of his other hand digging hard into her hip as he pounds into her at a furious pace. She lets herself careen over the edge with a throaty, desperate cry. A kind of shimmering ecstasy washes over her body, and he follows her,with his next breath, pushing her towards the dashboard with a final thrust. A half second later, he groans and she feels him explode inside her. 

Thank god she hadn't stopped taking her "pointless" birth control pills during her dry spell. 

He leans forward, clutching her to his chest, like he's trying to keep them both from falling. Like he doesn't want to let her go yet.

Not that there's anywhere for her to go anyway. 

They stay like that for what feels like several minutes, coming down from the high, breathing hard, like they'd just chased each other up a steep hill before collapsing on top of each other.

It's such a foreign thing—someone clinging to her. Wanting to keep her. To hold onto her. 

Rey isn't sure what to do with that feeling.

"Comehomewithme?" he murmurs into her ear. 

All she wants to do in the world is let him take her home. The same way that any of her customers leave Jakkü on any given night. They go home _with_ someone or _to _someone while Rey wipes down the speed rail before returning to her tiny apartment with her ornery roommate and her ornery roommate's indifferent cat, and collapsing in her hand-me-down IKEA bed.

It's not too much to ask for her luck to hold just this once, right? On today, of all days?

As if on cue, her eyes open and land on the dashboard clock, which reads 10:07 pm. 

"Shit." Rey straightens up. 

"What?"

"I've been gone for twenty-seven minutes. I'm gonna have to stop at Taco Bell and buy a Cheesy Gordita Crunch to make sure Kaydel covers for me."

It's an odd conversation to have with someone whose penis is still halfway inside of you.

"You have to go back to the restaurant?"

She turns her head, looking back at him quizzically. Maybe he's never had a job that involved time constraints and general managers who want the wine replenished for tomorrow's lunch service.

"Uh, yeah. I have my closing checklist. I have to wash floor mats, burn the ice, tip out. And I left my phone there." _And my purse, my keys, my jacket._

His brow furrows slightly, as if he's trying to puzzle out the concept of chores.

"I'll wait."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll wait for you. In the car. In the parking lot." He gives a little shrug. "And I'll take you to my place when you're done."

"You don't have anything better to do than sit in a parking lot for forty minutes? On your birthday?"

"You stole my car, kidnapped me, and fucked me in a parking lot. Just hazarding a guess here, but I don't think my evening is going to get betterand more exciting if I drive home by myself right now." She stares at him. "Taco Bell, you said?"

Rey nods, slightly dumbfounded.

"Did you want to drive?"

She nods again. 

This is so good, it feels like something that's about to get ripped away any moment. So of course, she has to press on it. Test it. Just to be sure.

"You really want me to come home with you? You're not just...being nice? Or trying to make this seem like more than—"

"More than what?"

"I dunno." She turns her head back toward the windshield again, in an effort to avoid his gaze, but catching his eye in the reflection anyway. "A one-time hookup with a stranger who bought you a couple drinks? I see that a lot. Working at a bar."

"'One-time?' I'm not done with you. I still haven't gotten what I wished for when I blew out that flaming orange peel—"

"Grapefruit." Rey turns back to face him again. "You didn't wish for a passenger seat blow job?"

Ben shakes his head. 

"Then what _do_ you want?"

He brushes his hand over the soft skin around her stomach, making circles around her belly button with his middle finger.

"I want you. Naked. In my bed." Oh yes, she's imagined that, too. "The backs of your thighs on my shoulders. Your knees squeezing around my head. Hands holding onto my headboard."

"Oh." She bites her lip, considering. Letting that sink in. "What about you?"

"Also naked. Trying my goddamn best to make you scream louder than you just did." 

"I mean—” she’s having trouble forming words “—I think...I think everyone should get at least one thing they wish for on their birthday."

Is it possible that she actually spun the wheel and hit the jackpot on the first try? This happens to other people. Better people. Like Rose. 

Rey is just starting to consider how she might gracefully move from his lap to the driver's seat if they're still technically joined, when there's a loud tap at the somewhat fogged up window. 

"Fuck. It's probably that kid with the Adderall."

“Grand theft auto, kidnapping, public indecency, letting a stranger come inside you, _and_ buying drugs from children?"

"He's nineteen!"

There's another sharp tap and Ben lowers the tinted passenger window.

That's when Rey notices the red and blue lights rotating from the top of the police vehicle.

A sharp wave of panic bursts pulses in her chest. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_. Of course this was too good to be true. Of course she was going to have to pay for it later. Stupid. Reckless. All because she couldn't wait a damn day to fuck a stranger in a more private location. 

Rey shoves her breasts back into her bra, just before the copy shines a flashlight into the car. If he's phased by any of this, he doesn't show it. 

"Ma'am, are you over eighteen?" 

"W-what?" She squints into the blinding light. "I—Yes? Twenty-three—er, twenty-four."

"Are you consenting?"

Coughing and choking at the same time, she manages to reply: "Very."

The cop sighs.

"I need identification. From both of you." 

There's a lot of tugging at clothing and bending at awkward angles in order to reach their IDs. Rey shoves her fingers in the pockets of her skirt (if it can still be called a skirt when the hem is several inches above her waist), eventually extracting the little zipper pocket where she keeps her license and her sole credit card. 

"Stay inside the car while I run these." The cop says everything by rote, like he got roped into running lines for this scene with an actor friend and this is the twelfth time they've played it out. 

She squeezes her eyes shut and imagines her sex-hair mugshot, the fines and the legal fees, the getting fired for breaking the law on her non-existent break. 

“Are you nervous?” Ben asks, like nothing is amiss and his cum isn't pooling in between her thighs.

“You’re not?” 

“Just be polite and apologetic." He reaches over to the driver's seat and grabs her discarded shirt. "If that doesn’t work, I have seven hundred dollars cash in my wallet.”

"Like mother, like son, huh?" she mumbles, thinking about how insane it would feel to just _have_ more than forty dollars cash in her wallet at any given time. 

"What was that?"

"Nothing." Maybe it's wrong, but Rey really doesn't want to contribute the remaining fifty dollar bill to their police officer bribery fund. "Sorry I stole your car and kidnapped you and possibly cost you seven hundred dollars on your birthday." And a sizable bill to have this car interior detailed. 

"Right, but don't forget the two craft cocktails you comped me. Plus, the sex." Through the side mirror, Rey can see the cop approaching again. "Speaking of which, are you still coming back to my place, or did this kill any chance of—"

"Oh, no. I'm still gonna come–" Rey tugs her shirt over her head "—with you." It feels like it's on backwards. "We still have at least—" she glances at the digital display on the dashboard "—an hour and forty minutes left to, uh...celebrate. Officially."

"Hey, when's your birthday?" He's buttoning his shirt unevenly. "I think I need to start making arrangements now. And probably increase my insurance premiums."

"Oh, you've already done plenty—"

The cop reappears at the window, looking slightly more bemused than the last time.

"I was gonna write you up, but now I know what was going on here." He holds up their ID cards together. "Two people with the same birthday—what are the odds? I'll give you a warning this time and ask you to take it somewhere private. Happy birthday. You got lucky this time."

The cop hands back their licenses and taps on the roof above the window before returning to his squad car. 

"The same birthday?"

"Yeah," Rey says softly, her lips slowly curving into an enormous smile. "Best fucking birthday ever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks so much for reading the weird nonsense that comes out of my brain. Your comments really cheered me up this week. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, many readers were also into [Insta-heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21218177), which is a similar length and smut-level. 
> 
> Or, for a longer read, [ Doing the Unstuck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877074), which is a slow-burn-ish, angsty rom com, inspired by When Harry Met Sally.

**Author's Note:**

> \---
> 
> Come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/slipgoingunder) and [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/slipgoingunder). I'm probably slipgoingunder on any other platforms, now and future, which is the advantage of a username comprised of obscure Cure lyrics.


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